All Good Things Must End...

Where everybody knows your name (kind of)

Today is New Years Eve, and I am sitting in a restaurant that will be closing its doors for good in less than six hours.

I won’t be here when they shoo the last stragglers out the door. The finale of the Stranger Things saga drops tonight, and I have an appointment on the living room couch to finish it off with the child that was barely a teenager when Season One came out almost a decade ago. He is not around much these days, so this marks the end of two eras for me today.

For now, I am sitting in one of the tables on my regular rotation–one close to an electrical outlet. I have eaten my customized salad, and am drinking my typical coffee. I will transition to one of the four drinks on my usual rotation before the afternoon is over (a large Lime Bubly OR green tea OR lemonade OR blueberry lemonade, with no ice). I am here to bear witness to part of this final day, and to remember.

There is a steady stream of well wishers – regulars who are coming in one last time to check on the staff, and to say their goodbyes and good lucks. Some of the customers are learning for the first time that this will be their last time, at least in this location. Some items and ingredients are not available. The pickings are slim, and the workers are counting down the hours and gradually removing the signage.

I was trying to remember the first time I came here, but the details are fuzzy. This must mean it opened during the active chemo years, when all the details blurred together and chaos pushed out higher level brain functioning. But eventually, as life got back to (our new) normal, this quietly became a place of gatherings and celebrations, both big and small. Long planned or spontaneous. Public laughter and quiet conversations. Booths, tables, chairs, and benches held the hungry, and a public meeting room that provided space for the seekers and crafters and essential oilers. It was one of the few places that could reasonably accommodate restrictive diets in a way that did not shine a ‘weirdo spotlight’ on the various young students I gathered with here over the years.

When the firstborn’s cancer came back, this place transitioned once again. It became a quieter place. A solitary place to catch my breath and regroup. A dedicated place to write.

And boy, did I write. There were seven books in the first couple of years after he died.

When COVID came, this truly became a place to spread out and still connect with my ever shrinking group of friends and acquaintances.

I began to work on a ridiculously expansive writing project – one I knew ahead of time would take five years to complete. Every single time it became overwhelming, I came to this place to regroup. To eat and drink. To watch and listen to those around me, and to ground myself again. There was a magic to the ordinariness of the people who have been in and out of here.

– Loud giggles from the kids drawing on the over-sized chalk board, as their parents sit and try to catch their breaths for a moment.

– Various groups of old men telling their glorious old man stories and holding court in the corner.

– Readers and writers and pray-ers sitting alone, avoiding eye contact in an attempt to keep their invisible bubbles from bursting – or to keep those barely disguised tears at bay.

– High school girls selfie-ing and counting calories, or enjoying their sweet pastries with abandon.

– That one couple who sit in the same booth every Thursday from noon until 1:15, eating their same meal and not saying a word to each other the entire time but they seem totally content with it all.

– People in wheelchairs and scooters, trying to figure out how to get ice or which lids fit their cups.

– Young couples on first or second dates.

– The informal gatherings of people telling their AA-ish stories, and those who are covering that shame in quietly spoken prayers.

– Bible studies or birthday parties in the meeting room.

– People meeting for job interviews or business negotiations.

– That one woman who is way too loud and inappropriate, but always makes me laugh to myself from across the room.

– People of all shapes, sizes, skin tones, and social standings – in and out like an ever-changing kaleidoscope of brilliant colors.

And then there are the people who have worked here. A couple of years ago, I hit the halfway point in that project, and was finding all manner of reasons to step back – to postpone and ‘return to it later.’ It was about this time that this restaurant began an unlimited drinks promo with a three month free trial. I ignored the ads at first, but eventually caved, thinking I would use it some, and would cancel it when the trial period ended. I even wrote it on my calendar, so I would not get sucked into continuing for an extra month like I typically do.

Well, it turned out I stuck around willingly, and as one of the drive-through workers pointed out, I quickly learned how to ‘work the program to my advantage.’ She was not wrong.

A lovely benefit to sitting in the restaurant and going to the drive-through so often has been getting to know the various workers. Many of them learned my voice, face, and/or phone number quickly. They smiled freely and were genuinely kind. Seeing them and interacting on even a limited basis almost daily brought me a sense of joy each time. Many of them even call me by my name when they take my orders.

Here’s the thing. It is not my actual name. I try not to use real identifying details on programs I sign up for, and the whole free drinks thing was no exception. I had no reason to believe anyone here would see that name, much less associate it with me or go out of their way to acknowledge my existence. If I had, I might have chosen differently, but maybe not. The strange reality of navigating a world where my child has died is that my real world interactions have gotten smaller and smaller. Hundreds of people I still live close to actively avoid eye contact and personal interactions and they rarely call out my name, not out of malice or mean intentions, but more as an expression to awkwardness and grief that has morphed into benign neglect.

Not the folks who work here (for a few more hours), though. They don’t know my story. They don’t know my sadnesses that have been front and center for this little Mississippi community to see. They don’t know they could actively avoid me or look away when I walk into the room. No, they just do their jobs and have treated me like a normal, everyday person, and they say my fake name with a smile.

That name is now my favorite. I think I will hang onto it for a while. It is associated with a return to the land of the living and an almost completed writing project – one that I finished in no small part to this place and these people.

Making your way in the world today

Takes everything you’ve got

Taking a break from all your worries

Sure would help a lot

Wouldn’t you like to get away?

Sometimes you wanna go

Where everybody knows your name (even if it is a fake one…) 🙂

And they’re always glad you came

You wanna be where you can see (ah-ah)

Our troubles are all the same (ah-ah)

You wanna be where everybody knows your name

(“Cheers Theme Song” by Gary Portnoy and Judy Hart Angelo ‧ 1983)

It (and they) are going away now. That happens. The circle of life, and all that. I will miss them and this place and these daily drinks more than they will ever know. They have made my life brighter, just by being them and doing what they do. And for that, I am so very grateful.

Right now, there is a young family here for one last meal. The mom is leading her young daughter in ‘saying the blessing’.

“God is great. God is good.

Let us thank him for our food.

Amen.”

(or, more accurately, ‘Ah-h-h men.’)

Then the little girl said, “Daddy, why didn’t we get lemonade?”

“Well, they are out of lemonade today.”

“So we can get one next time we come?”

“No, because they are closing the store today.”

“Forever and for good?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Forever and for good.”

“Well, I don’t like that. Not one bit.”

“I know. Me, either.”

“And that just stinks. It stinks even worse than when the hermit crab died at Gulf Shores. It stinks like if we took that hermit crab and covered it in mayonnaise.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

To the lovely folks from Panera, I offer this traditional Irish Blessing for Farewells:

“May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

the rains fall soft upon your fields,

and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

A shoutout to the many other people and places that have closed in the past decade – gone, but not forgotten:

High Noon Cafe, Rainbow Co-op, Babalu, The Fondren Beverage Emporium, Lost Pizza trivia nights, The Prickly Hippie, M7 Coffee Shop, Cups in Ridgeland, Backyard Burgers, The Jerusalem Cafe, The Shift Shop, Eudora Welty Public Library, Fondren After Five, Que Sera Sera, PJ’s in Fondren, Basil’s, Jitney #14, ungated access to Lakeshore Park at the Reservoir, Mellow Mushroom, that smoothie bowl place at Dogwood